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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26931766">Cessation in Crimson</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/akirakurosawa/pseuds/akirakurosawa'>akirakurosawa</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canonical Character Death, Hallucinations, M/M, Maedhros is really not in a good headspace, Russingon, TW: canonical suicide, Unreliable Narrator, a wild chasm opens and the author cant help herself, also he conjures up fingon to talk to him, author got inspired by quote from the old guard, but like can also be read as not a hea, dont make me choose show a backbone choose for yourself, he's about to yeet himself and the Silmaril off, i mean in my head they live together in a cottage and are happy idgaf, i will burn on this ship, may be read as hopeful ending, mind the suicide warning pls, no beta we die like High Kings of Noldor, nobody knows how elven magic works</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 02:49:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,349</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26931766</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/akirakurosawa/pseuds/akirakurosawa</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"... But the jewel burned the hand of Maedhros in pain unbearable; and he perceived that it was as Eönwë had said, and that his right thereto had become void, and that the oath was vain. And being in anguish and despair he cast himself into a gaping chasm filled with fire, and so ended; ..."</p><p>OR: Maitimo is about to destroy himself and the Silmaril both. The only one he wants to see at the end is Findekáno.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Cessation in Crimson</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>LISTEN HERE. </p><p>I'm sick; it was my birthday yesterday; my brain won't cooperate on other projects; <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArvenaPeredhel/pseuds/ArvenaPeredhel">Nolo</a> mentioned a gifset of that scene of Andy and Quynh in The Old Guard, before they bury Qunyh, and how it's basically Russingon; my brain is in pain and I need to let it out; <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya">Azh &lt;3</a> wrote a Nirnaeth fic that makes me wanna cry constantly; I'm high on painkillers; I took all of those things and mixed it up and produced this. So.</p><p>Please mind the trrigger warnings about suicide!</p><p>More stuff at bottom.</p><p>Oh - I quote The Old Guard scene directly, so yeah.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span class="u">
      <strong>Cessation in Crimson</strong>
    </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The Silmaril in his hand burned.</p><p> </p><p>It burned exactly like the fires of Angband once burned off his flesh, like the flames burned off his hair and charred his limbs and swallowed his weakened body, licking it and scorching it, and he knew now, as he dared not think then, that no respite would come. He knew it now as he did not grasp it then, because now he understood beyond all hope that nobody would be coming for him.</p><p> </p><p>(<em>The one that would have come, the one that always came, over ice and fire and doom, was a long time dead.</em>)</p><p> </p><p>He felt the heat down to the marrow of his bones, and yet he also did not feel it almost at all. His <em>fëa</em> and <em>hröa</em> both were so mauled, so spent and so exhausted, that he could not believe in anything his sensory perception tried to tell him. He tried to look around and saw that he stood on the edge of a precipice he did not remember coming to. As he blinked, his vision cleared, and with it also his mind.</p><p> </p><p>The air around him was thick with wisps of heavy smoke, all emanating from a crack in the earthen core. He blinked again, and the image before him suddenly reminisced an opened, broken mouth, spewing blood as fire and fumes and poisoned words in Black Speech as dark as the smoke and the sky around him and he shuddered from the onslaught of memories that blended seamlessly into what he supposed was a reality.</p><p> </p><p>He knew this was the end of the road for him, if he knew nothing else but that and his name. He clutched the Silmaril tighter in his hand, and thought <em>And what a fitting end for Maedhros Feanorian, the Oath-taker, the Kinslayer, the abomination of ugliness and all that once was fair. What a fitting end to the son of Fëanáro Who Burned With Fire, to the butcher of innocents and the fiery-haired bringer of Death? What a fitting end to a shell of an Elf, that has only the fire of a cursed jewel and a damned Oath left to sustain him?</em></p><p> </p><p>The chasm before him spit out fire in an arc, making him take a step back lest he got burned, and he thought for a moment that he heard it screaming; but no, that was but his decayed brain playing tricks on him, as it had been playing tricks on him for too many years to count.</p><p> </p><p>He imagined someone, anyone (<em>him</em>) asking him, <em>Have you any regrets?</em></p><p> </p><p>The echo of the question made him release a hollow laugh, because what did he have left <em>but </em>regrets? Everything Maedhros had ever done, he had done <em>wrong</em>, even if it were in the best of faith.</p><p> </p><p>No; no, that was an outright lie. Perhaps everything he had done up until that cursed, Valar-forsaken evil that was <em>Nirnaeth Arnoediad</em>, Maitimo had done in best of faith. After the battle, though, it would not do well to delude himself. After the battle, it was different. All was different, for the world had ended for him. After the battle, all that he had done, he had done because… because the other option was not to do anything, and unfortunately for him and countless of those who would bear the brunt of his pain, he still had enough of that cursed inferno that was his birthright and his doom to make him want to live.</p><p> </p><p>No. That was another lie. He had no will to live. Only to <em>survive</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Maedhros survived, when Fin -- <em>others</em> have not, and now the time had finally come to pay the price for surviving then. Now, he wished to survive no more, and death had passed him by too many times. Dying was supposed to be easy, was it not? Even for Eldar, dying was comparatively simple. Spear the flesh enough times; impale it on enough poles and swords; pierce the lungs and the eyes and the <em>heart</em> with enough force, and even the Firstborn will die.</p><p> </p><p><em>Does that not mean I am already dead?,</em> Maedhros asked himself.</p><p> </p><p>He must have been, for his heart was pierced and shattered and left out to bleed, the same way Fi -- <em>another’s</em> body was left on the battlefield of Nirnaeth Arnoediad in the aftermath of the Enemy’s deceit and slaughter. Maitimo must have died on the battlefield too, because he could not imagine himself actually living after experiencing <em>that</em>. Existing, perhaps. And even that, he did not make a good job of.</p><p> </p><p>(<em>The pain and the rage that fueled him rose in a crescendo until he saw nothing through the curtain of his red hair matted with red blood on the battlefield of red corpses and as the red dawn rose, he fell to his knees by the broken body wrapped in </em>blue <em>and </em>gold <em>but he saw only </em>red<em>, red of despair and red of blood and red of anguish and red of revenge and his heart bled </em>crimson <em>before it stopped bleeding and working and feeling, wrapped in a cocoon of ice and steel from that moment to forevermore.</em>)</p><p> </p><p>The Silmaril in his hand burned.</p><p> </p><p>Maedhros glanced down at it in a daze, tearing himself from his memories, and flexed his fingers around the jewel. He could have carried it into his prosthetic hand, true, but he saw no point to it. Why spare himself anything the Silmaril had to give? This jewel, shining brightly despite the curtain of fumes poisoning the air around him, was his birthright and his inheritance.</p><p> </p><p>Maitimo had hated many things in his too long a life, but never did he despise anything or anyone more than he did the ball of Light burning his flesh hand on the edge of a fiery chasm.</p><p> </p><p>“The pain must be unbearable by now.”</p><p> </p><p>Maedhros’ heart stopped.</p><p> </p><p>The voice that spoke was as clear as the eyes of the owner of that voice were clear while mirrored in a clear water of the river; as melodious as the sounds the owner of that voice used to produce while accompanying the singing with his harp; as painful as the last time Maedhros saw the owner of the voice in person.</p><p> </p><p>His mind must have reached its devastation point, he knew, if the voice he imagined was this clear, this familiar, this alluring. Maitimo closed his eyes, strangely calm at the thought of his mind being a fetid and foul rot, if its resulting hallucination was this.</p><p> </p><p><em>I know not if it be worse that, when I open my eyes, he is stood there, or if he is not, </em>he thought. He could not find his voice to say anything out loud, so he only brought the Silmaril closer to his chest, relishing the burn as the only thing tying him to reality.</p><p> </p><p><em>He is not real</em>, he thought.</p><p> </p><p>“Russo, please soften your grip. The pain must be unbearable now.”</p><p> </p><p>“No-,” Maitimo croaked, his voice breaking. He inhaled lungfuls of thick smoke and coughed, but his <em>hröa</em> barely felt it. He was burning up from everywhere, inside and outside, <em>fëa</em> and <em>hröa</em>, and a burn in his lungs was unimportant. His mind was on fire, and he relished the insanity, because it brought him this.</p><p> </p><p>The important thing is to keep <em>him</em> talking while Maedhros gathered the courage to finally open his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“No,” he tried again, “this is… this is nothing. Just… a mark on the flesh. And I… I have felt worse, both flesh and… not.” His words were steel breaking over stones, agony and love combined into desolation too big for his vocal chords to accurately convey.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, my dearest, I know, and I am <em>so sorry </em>for leaving you<em>.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>And Maedhros really wanted to prolong this moment, to at least listen to the voice for some time longer, to greedily hoard every single moment and every single syllable before the ultimate end came, but at this, his eyes snapped open against his will, because <em>he does not get to apologize for what was my fault, he does not </em>-</p><p> </p><p>“No Finno, please, no,” he cried, and his eyesight was blurred by both the putrid smoke and the wretched tears he started to shed, and <em>oh Eru, he had not shed tears for years, in fact, the last time he did was when he found him, when he found Finno -</em></p><p> </p><p>- Finno who was here, before him, and Maitimo could almost see him. The gold in his hair was a beacon of light in the fog of the fumes, and Maitimo shook his head to dispel the tears and clear his vision, because he needed to <em>look</em>, he needed to <em>see, </em> to see <em>Finno</em>, lest he perish right then and there. When he did, it did not help, for more tears were unavoidable at what he was seeing.</p><p> </p><p>There Findekáno was, standing tall and proud as he always did, and his dark hair was braided in the elaborate style he preferred, but could never manage on his own, so he always had Russo do it. His dark brown skin was illuminated from the inside, just like it used to be in Valinor in the Light of the Trees, when they were young and foolish and happy and in love. He wore no crown, but he never needed a crown to be the king of Russo’s soul and mind and heart; that was a title Russo gave him willingly, and it did not end, like other kingships did, with the king's death. His eyes were shining like the stars used to shine back when Russandol found all the joy in them, a cold light that brought relief and tenderness and yearning all wrapped up together, and he was so, so <em>lovely</em>, so handsome and so fair, that Russo lost the battle with himself and succumbed to the river of tears that flowed uninterrupted from his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Maitimo knew that this Findekáno standing before him was not real. He knew that he could disintegrate before his eyes at any moment because he was <em>not here</em>, and he was <em>not real</em>, because <em>how could he be real</em>? <em>His </em>Finno was long gone, long dead and long lost, his body left broken and battered and bruised on a battlefield of what came to be known as the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, and never was there a name more befitting a thing than that one.</p><p> </p><p>(<em>The banners muddied and broken, limbs scattered everywhere, crowing of birds and silence broken by wails, and a shout, grievous and heartbroken, only sound at the ending of the world.</em>)</p><p> </p><p><em>This </em>Finno, however, <em>was </em>here, and Maitimo knew he had not much time. His mind was already too far gone, and his body, scarred and ugly and damaged, was slowly failing. The plight upon his lineage was in his hand, but it was also inside his spirit, as he came to understand had always been the case. He had not time, and yet he was determined to make every moment count, because this may be the last time he ever sees Finno. After he did what he came here to do, he knew not what would happen to him, and he would and could not delude himself into thinking that Finno may wait for him on the other side of death.</p><p> </p><p>(<em>Will you wait, love? Will I see you again? Will I be afforded a mercy that I do not deserve? Will Eru be kind for one final time? The Valar will not, this I know. I do not wish to exist in a world where there is no </em>you<em> anymore.)</em></p><p> </p><p><em>I do not think I </em>ever <em>wanted to exist in a world without you</em>, Russandol thought.</p><p> </p><p>“It must hurt you desperately, dearest,” Finno said, and Maitimo chuckled, having forgotten about the cursed jewel in his hand when faced with the immeasurable beauty of Findekáno once again stood before him.</p><p> </p><p>“It hurt more to have you be gone,” he said, and Finno’s face crumbled, and Maitimo could almost believe that he was not just an apparition, because that was the exact face that Finno always made when they spoke of Angband, or the Helcaraxë, or the deaths of their kin. Maitimo hated that expression of despair and sadness, and he hurried to reassure his love.</p><p> </p><p>“No, love, please, do not weep,” he said, his awful voice still croaking, his abused throat barely cooperating through inhalations of vapors from the fire-pit. “Do not be alarmed, <em>melin-hón</em>, please. Just,” he pushed the words through the tears, hoping Finno would hear. “Just, speak to me so I can hear your voice and nothing else.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh so now you like my voice, <em>melindo</em>,” Finno said, feigned indignation clear in his words. “And when I used to want to sing to you, you silenced me every time!”</p><p> </p><p>Maitimo brought up the hand holding the Silmaril and wiped his tears with the back of it, unwilling to lose even a moment of looking at Finno due to anything, much less his own body’s fault. His hand was shaking, but he did not care. The ground underneath him was shaking, or perhaps it was him who was trembling the whole time? He cared not; he only cared to watch and listen to Finno.</p><p> </p><p>“I used to silence you with my touch, and I do not remember you objecting at all,” he tried to joke, but his words came out desperate, and choking, and mournful. “I know I cannot touch you now, even if it is my greatest wish to only feel you for one last time, so hearing your lovely voice will have to do.”</p><p> </p><p>His eyes drank in the sight of Finno’s flushed cheeks, his regal bearing, that tiny scar in his brow that was almost unnoticeable, unless one knew where to look, and Russo always knew where to look, Russo always looked, Russo made sure he looked <em>everywhere</em>, and even after centuries of looking, it was never going to be <em>enough</em>. It would never be enough, he knew, and he knew that his time was running out.</p><p> </p><p>“You always did have a way with words Russo,” Finno smiled, but his smile was heartsick, and his eyes were restless, and Maitimo knew this was it for them.</p><p> </p><p>The Silmaril in his hand burned, and he was not yet ready to say goodbye.</p><p> </p><p>He would <em>never </em>be ready to say goodbye.</p><p> </p><p>“I have never been burned alive,” Maitimo heard himself saying. The lines on Finno’s face deepened, and his gaze turned stormy. “What do you think it will be like?”</p><p> </p><p>And Maitimo saw in Finno’s face everything, because Finno never learned to hide his feelings and thoughts from Russo. He saw the pain of inevitable death, and the betrayal of centuries of bad decisions, and the love that bloomed in peace and quiet of Valinor and burned in destruction and death of Beleriand, and understanding towards Maedhros’ decision, and above all the hurt at the thought of the inevitable.</p><p> </p><p>“Excruciating,” Finno of his mind said, and his eyes were jewels of sorrow.</p><p> </p><p>Maitimo laughed without any humor, and then Finno did too, and when their eyes met, Russandol saw all that he ever wanted in those orbs that shone brighter than any artificial imitation of the Light ever could, and in that laughter he heard the melody of the world righting itself on battered knees and he could almost believe himself happy.</p><p> </p><p>“Just you and me,” he heard himself saying.</p><p>
  
</p><p><em>Just you and me until the end of the world, until the stars cease to shine and the world ceases to exist and until we are both too old to remember why it is we love each other, and only thing that remains is the bone-deep certainty that we do, and we always have, and we always will</em>, he did not say. <em>Just you and me-</em></p><p> </p><p>“- until the end,” Finno of his mind said, and it was logical to think that a hallucination that he procured would be able to finish his thoughts - it was his mind that conjured Finno -  but in that moment, Russo felt as if there was something else in the air around them.</p><p> </p><p>Russo’s eyes widened as he took in the whole of Finno, of his brave and valiant love. If Maitimo was ever certain of anything in his life, it was of these facts - that Finno was the one person he loved most in the whole world; that Findekáno Astaldo was not named in vain; and that, if Maitimo loved Findekáno with the burning passion of a neverending fire, then Finno loved Russandol with the steadiness and endurance of a river paving the way through stone. He knew this, and he found himself breathless with the effort not to let himself <em>hope</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Maitimo wanted to say many things then. He wanted to fall on his knees before Finno and beg for forgiveness, he wanted to curse his Father, The Enemy, the Valar, the Silmarils, the Kingships, the Oath, to spit upon everyone and anyone, and destroy everything and anything that had stood between the two of them. He wanted to fall to his knees before Finno and hold him, and put his fingers inside those obsidian locks of hair and slowly unbraid the gold until the only shining thing left were Finno’s eyes looking at Russo, seeing into him and understanding him and <em>loving </em>him. He wanted to put his hands on Finno’s shoulders and his lips on Finno’s brow and kiss every single part of him, wash away the betrayals and the hurts and the pains with love and gentleness and forgiveness. Maitimo wanted to hold the love of his life, this life, and all the other lives he had ever lived or even just had the potential to live, and he wanted to tell Finno that nothing would or could ever compare to the feeling of having Finno safe in his arms.</p><p> </p><p>Most of all, Russandol wanted to be able to love Findekáno like he used to love him when they were young and drunk on each other, with stars in their eyes and nothing but joy in their hearts and devotion in their friendship and worship in their <em>fëa</em> and <em>hröa</em> both.</p><p> </p><p>Maedhros wanted to say and do too many things, but there was no time for anything, but for a final thought.</p><p> </p><p>(<em>Please. Please let me see him again. Please, let me come to him again, to beg for forgiveness, to show him my love, to see him again, even if he wants nothing to do with me. Please, please, allow me to make amends. Allow me to tell him what I should have told him every moment we both took breaths on this world, what I took for granted and what he may not have known by my own fault. I beg of you, allow me to tell him that he is loved - that he is, and always will be, most beloved.</em>)</p><p> </p><p>The Silmaril in his hand burned enough to tear his flesh now, and Maedhros was out of time.</p><p> </p><p>He looked at Finno once more, and committed to memory everything about him that he could, knowing he would soon be obliterated and would not know anything, so it mattered not.</p><p> </p><p><em>No, </em>he thought. <em>Even if I lose myself, and know nothing, I would always know </em>him.</p><p> </p><p>As he turned to the chasm with a final look at Finno, his dear, most beloved, beautiful Finno, the flesh on his hand melted and his tears turned from hope and sorrow to pain, he knew it was time to end this.</p><p> </p><p>The Silmaril in his hand burned as he jumped, but the final words he spoke to the darkness and shadow as he fell into the inferno burned even brighter, and he could almost fool himself that he was finally at peace.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Apsenelyën</em>,” he whispered, as the fire finally devoured him. “<em>Apsenelyën</em>, Finno, <em>melinyel</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>He could almost fool himself that he heard a soft ‘<em>Melinyel</em>’ in reply, and not merely in echoes.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Let me get the Quenya translations out first:<br/>- fëa - spirit<br/>- hröa - body<br/>- melin-hón - dear-heart (i made this one myself so it's probs wrong)<br/>- melindo - beloved<br/>- apsenelyën - forgive me<br/>- melinyel - i love you.</p><p>All my love goes to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArvenaPeredhel/pseuds/ArvenaPeredhel">Nolo</a>, for being fucking awesome in like, everything, be it giving prompts or helping a distracted me with Quenya,</p><p><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saecookie/pseuds/Saecookie">Cookie</a>, for making my days so much better by existing, and</p><p><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/GWH/pseuds/GWH">BAE</a>, bcs I will always love you the mostest, and you know what's even better? &lt;3</p><p>Anyways, pls let me know what you think, and let me know if you find any mistakes or typos or whatever. Happy birthday to me, I guess?</p><p>Drugged Akira out &lt;3</p></blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
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